Miracle
by SilverCascade
Summary: Molly stops at 221b to visit John and Mrs. Hudson after the Fall. Post-Reichenbach. Slight Sherlolly. One-shot.


"I'm so glad you could make it today, dear," said Mrs. Hudson, beaming as she entered the living room with a tray of coffee and cakes. Her smile faltered as she caught sight of John's forlorn gaze fixed on the rich carpet. She placed the tray down on the table and turned her attention to the other person present.

"It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Hudson," smiled Molly, smoothing the folds of her patterned cotton dress, the sunflowers on the navy fabric a stark contrast to her pale, nervous face. "It's been a while since I've had to move any body parts into the fridge…" She trailed off, glancing at a stony-faced John who did not react.

"He's been like this since we got back from the grave," whispered Mrs. Hudson into Molly's ear. The younger woman noticed the housekeeper's red-rimmed eyes and realised she had been crying. "I thought he could use a little company who wasn't me, and Sherlock-" She stopped abruptly, and closing her eyes, she swallowed the lump in her throat. "_He_ saw you a lot and I thought-"

"I understand," Molly said kindly. She had been far too afraid to visit the grave herself, in case she lost what little composure she still retained. Though as she sat in spare wooden chair, consumed with guilt, she wondered if this situation was worse. Staring at the empty armchair where Sherlock had sat and had thought and had played the violin… it was almost unbearable.

"Thanks…er, thanks for coming," said John, snapping out of his daze. "It must've been hard for you too, thought I suppose Lestrade didn't give you the body-" He stopped, realising what he had said as a look of shock crossed Mrs. Hudson's face. Molly stiffened, and the old woman gave a stifled sob before darting into the kitchen. John cursed quietly, and Molly fought the urge to run in after her and comfort the upset landlady. She remained still, focused on the purpose of her visit.

"Funny, he's always the one to do that to people," she said to John, who raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You're supposed to be the nice one."

"Well, I haven't been feeling very nice lately." His face clouded over, mixed emotion visible in the cracks of the mask. He reached across to the chair beside him, on which lay a white-and-black striped jumper he proceeded to pull over his shirt. Mrs. Hudson had taken up knitting recently, and had been doing it an awful lot.

"Lestrade didn't give me the body, by the way," she said, a stab of guilt slicing through her heart. "He's not that big a bastard."

"Don't let Mrs. Hudson hear you with that language, or she'll throw you out!" said John with a wry smile. "And I don't think so - Lestrade is as big a bastard as they come."

Molly smiled, shaking her head, the medium-red lipstick making her white teeth look even whiter. She had taken to wearing the shade ever since Sherlock…she could not even bring herself to think the word before the guilt returned, consuming her. The shade, called Brickdust, was the one he always noticed, thought never in the way she wanted him to, but she always thought some attention was better than none at all. Molly sighed at the thought and turned her attention back to John, who had resumed his staring contest against the carpet.

Quiet sobs resonated through the otherwise silent flat, their origin the kitchen, where the old woman wept the loss of her most frustrating, most entertaining and most lovable tenant.

"Sometimes I think he'll just walk back in here, take that bloody scarf off the rack and complain about how boring his last case was..." As John spoke, he picked up a slice of cake from the stack and devoured it as if attempting to fill a hole in his heart. He glanced at the coffee and sighed, splashing in some whiskey from his hip flask and taking a sip.

"He's gone, John," murmured Molly. "I miss him too." She held out her hand and he passed her the flask. A splash in her own drink later, she revelled in the burning path the heat carved through her throat. "It's hard at the morgue knowing he'll never pop in to ask about some case or use that riding crop on a body or ponder over something whilst looking through the microscopes…"

"He may have been a machine, but he was so human sometimes," John added quietly, thinking to the numerous times his best friend had not understood the concept of caring, and then the times he looked out for the veteran. "He might have hated sentiment, but I think he felt it. And Molly, no matter what he said, he never meant to hurt you."

She looked up and nodded. He was just wired that way; he said things without thinking about their impact, and he was usually right about what those things…except with Moriarty. "I know. And even though the things he said still hurt, I don't think about them anymore."

"How've you been then?" John took another slurp from his extra-strength coffee and grimaced; it tasted far too sweet. Mrs. Hudson knew he did not take sugar; he knew she must have been rather upset to forget that, what with the countless cups she had made them during cases. "It's been a while. How is the morgue, and how are Lestrade's henchmen?" As he said the inspector's name, bitterness entered his tone. He thought to Donovan and Anderson and their part in Sherlock's suicide. They had doubted him. They had all doubted him.

"They don't visit anymore," she admitted, tucking a loose strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear. "Probably reminds them of him. His brother, who's name I can't-"

"Mycroft."

"Yes, Mycroft. He visited once, and said he was sorry about everything as if it was his fault and he was responsible-" John snorted in response, and she paused, eyes widening. "Was it his fault?"

"He told his brother's life story to Moriarty," John said, jaw clenched in anger. "Partly responsible at least, I'd say, and a big part."

"But he's Sherlock's family!"

"It was in exchange for information. He sold out his brother for information!" He slammed his fist onto the table, the resounding waves causing coffee to slosh out from the rims the cups. The light-brown liquid trickled down the white ceramic.

Seconds passed.

The doctor suddenly felt bad for judging the elder Holmes brother so harshly – he had done what he saw right at the time, albeit without considering the consequences. Mycroft had looked truly sorry at the funeral and the time before that at the office… John sighed, remembering that he had not even passed on the apology to Sherlock. There was no one to blame except Moriarty, the man who pushed Sherlock over the edge of his mind, and he was now missing, presumed dead.

"Typical of Sherlock to take someone down with him," said Molly, reading his thoughts from his distressed face. "Though Jim had it coming. He was insane."

John remained silent for a few moments, then stared hard at Molly. "Do you read the papers, or believe the things on the Internet?"

"Not anymore." She paused, searching for the right words. "Not since they turned on Sherlock, when we, the people closest to him, know he's nothing like that." John nodded in response, satisfied. He was not alone in his new found loathing of the media.

A loud beep rang out, and John reached into his pocket, glancing at the glowing screen of his mobile. "Appointment with the psychiatrist in half an hour. I should go," he said, a weak smile playing on his lips as he stood up slowly, reaching for his cane as he headed to the door. "Thank you for coming today. I just never thought he could…" John's voice shook, and he turned to face her again, dark eyes searching for an answer. "Do you believe in miracles, Molly?"

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," she stated simply, sure of that more than anything else.

"But even the he can't come back from the grave, and God knows the last man who did relied on a miracle." John shook his head and walked out, calling out a polite thank you to Mrs. Hudson as he thudded down the stairs. Molly sighed, partly with exhaustion, partly with sadness, and partly with relief; the meeting was over and the pretence could be dropped. She pulled out her phone as she got to her feet, sending off a quick text.

**He's still upset. What else did you expect? Please think about him during your next master plan.**

**-Molly x**

**PS: Where are you? I need a lift back.**

She stared at the phone as the text whizzed off, and Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen, more composed now, though her eyes still glistened.

"I'm sorry dear, it's just that…"

"I know." She patted the elderly woman's arm. "Thank you for having me. I'll visit again soon." Mrs. Hudson nodded, and Molly waved goodbye, heading out of the door of 221b Baker Street. A slight ping indicated she had received a text.

**Sentiment, Molly. I'll see what I can do.**

**Cab on the way.**

**-SH**

Another ping.

**Dress is charming. Lipstick is too much.**

**-SH**

She smiled a half-smile; this was the closest thing to a compliment one could hope to extract from the great detective. He had noticed. Of course he had.

John's words rang in her ears as she walked down the street, turning the corner whilst keeping her eyes peeled for the familiar silhouette.

_He can't come back from the dead, and God knows the last guy who did relied on a miracle._

…_relied on a miracle…_

"That may be true," she murmured aloud, "but what if he never reached the grave in the first place, Doctor Watson? Would he need a miracle then, or just a willing friend?"


End file.
